Dark Side of the Bar
by LadyArrin
Summary: A quick back-alley tryst for bartender Dean Winchester leads him into something darker than he had ever imagined. Au! Ink, metal, non-con, drugs, violence.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: a one-shot written for my very dear friend as a pick-me-up. AU. Enjoy. -ladyarrin**

It was too much for him to deal with. Dean had been working in this crappy pub for years, having long given up on college. Tonight was a typical Friday night; the college had emptied out into parties and bars and by now everybody was so drunk they weren't even ordering drinks anymore. It was close enough to last call that he was simply wiping down the bar and running the machine under the bar to help clean up the glasses that people left. There was a casual movement out of the corner of his eye, a pretty boy who looked out of place here. Dean was comfortable enough in a black t-shirt that was, admittedly cut a little closer than he liked, and jeans. His shirt clung to his arms and showed off enough of his tattoos to make him 'interesting'. The boy, man (they looked similar enough in age) was clearly some sort of a student and shown an out-of-state driver's license as an ID; Kansas or something. Dean had moved around enough that it wasn't a big thing; he'd moved first to follow his brother but Sammy had long since forgotten who he was and was past the days when he wanted to hang out with his big brother. He stopped visiting and pretty soon just stopped calling all together. So he had moved again. And here he was, a nondescript city in a nondescript state tending bar because he had no other skills.

The man who had just left was one he'd been admiring all night; casually tousled black hair and a simple red t-shirt. There was a black, elaborately knotted celtic cross that took up the majority of his right forearm and a pair of snakebites to go along with it. Dean thought he'd spotted a hint of eyeliner but he'd been working too much to take a long enough glance to check. Apparently the young man had other things in mind and the glancing had been mutual. There was a napkin under his glass and a note casually scrawled in almost illegible handwriting.

"outside alley, five minutes. I don't bite...much."

Dean was stunned. He had no idea what this meant but Anna, his fellow bartender and a pretty redhead who received most of the tips, squealed over his shoulder. "YOU HAVE TO GO!" Her voice was drum-shattering in his ear and he knew she wouldn't shut up about it. Ever. "He's been eyefucking you all night. You have to go. I'll cover for you."

"Anna, I dunno about this." Dean could have sword he'd said the words, protested as she shoved him to the door with a bag of trash in his hand. But yet here he was, taking out the trash as a cover for his disappearance from the bar, out in that creepy fucking ally he had to park his Impala. A voice startled him; how he hadn't heard or seen the man before was a mystery. "Hello, Dean."

Dean whirled and dropped the trash. "How do you know my name?"

The man shrugged, teeth catching on the edge of one his piercings. "Anna gave it to me. Figured you wouldn't mind." That little minx had been in on this since the start. He couldn't give off the impression that he was startled, though, so Dean walked the five paces back and tossed the trash into the dumpster, taking moment to compose himself. This guy was seriously hot. Black skinny jeans that ended just a little too low; a hint of hip between that bright red shirt and that studded belt. A sliver of skin that suggested even more ink where a person couldn't see. Dean turned to look at him, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Who're you?" It was a fair enough question for him to ask and the man chuckled.

"It's embarrassing. Really. My folks are a bunch of bible thumpers. Named the lot of us after angels. I'm Castiel, my friends call me Cas. With a z." As he spoke he revealed another piercing (oh God, this one was on his _tongue_) and a grin that was rougeish enough to make him weak in the knees. "My brothers aren't so bad off. Michael and Gabriel. I got stuck with the weirdo one."

Dean's hands slid across denim as he pulled a tiny bottle of sanitizer as an excuse to avoid eye contact as he got the trash grime off his skin. "Guess you're lucky. My folks didn't really stick around long enough to give us decent names. So we're stuck with Dean and Sam." Blue eyes caught his from across the alley and held him, transfixed.

"I like it. It suits you."

Dean swallowed and dug in his pocket for a cigarette, using it as an excuse to tread closer to this...Castiel. It was, indeed, a unique name for such a unique man. "I'll take it your folks are the reason for all the metal and ink, right?" He was rewarded with yet another musical chuckle even as he finally shook out that cigarette and lit it. And then, out of nowhere, a delicate set of fingers plucked it out of his lips and stole it. Castiel flashed him a grin so high-watt that could have blown out the power.

"Thanks."

He didn't want to complain so he simply fished out a second one for himself with a slight grumble. "You coulda just asked."

"Takes all the fun out of it, though. Your face was priceless." Castiel knew he was making the bartender uncomfortable and he was loving every second of it. "I haven't seen you around campus much so I'm gonna just assume you don't go." The silence he received was enough to confirm his suspicions. The man hadn't been entirely unreceptive to his advances, either. It enough for him to go on. The man, Dean, was beautiful. He had been blessed with killer genetics that left him with a stunning face and multi-faceted green eyes (bowlegs aside, but that was rather endearing) and Castiel was happy enough to simply watch him smoke in silence, leaning against the wall. He finished his cigarette first and flicked it away and stole Dean's for the second time that night.

"What the hell, man? What kind of-" Dean never got to finish his sentence because he was slammed bodily against the wall and felt lips on his. His body was responding before he'd even had time to process, hands reaching for hips...but his hands were being dragged over his head and there lips were on his neck. Dean's eyes were closed and he wanted to say something, do something, anything at all, but found himself struggling to utter a word. There was a low purr in his ear as the grip on his wrists tightened and they were pinned against the rough brick of the building. He could feel it scratching into his arms and lower back as his shirt rode up, pain to mix with pleasure.

"Relax, Dean. I'm gonna blow your mind."

Relaxing, however, was impossible. There were fingers on his belt, undoing his jeans, reaching in to grab his cock. He jumped, pulled away. "No, just leave me alone..." But the person holding him was impossibly strong and he'd be damn liar if he said that being pinned like this, by a guy like this, wasn't a fucking turn-on. That purr was back in his ear and shame flooded his face.

"Somebody _likes_ it. I think I got myself a winner." Once he was sure that Dean was hard (and it took less convincing than he had hoped for) he slid the bartender's jeans down just enough to free his dick. Just enough to allow him room to...maneuver.

It happened so fast; Dean wasn't sure what had happened. One second he was pinned to the wall, the next he was free, and the third...the third second had wrenched a loud moan out of his mouth as his back arched. The inked man was on his knees with that delicious mouth wrapped around his cock and he could feel that barbel on his tongue moving up and down and across with the metal of those lip rings framing him in the best possible way. Apparently the man knew Dean was hooked because he released his wrists and rested his hands on the bartender's hips instead, pinning him to the wall that way. He couldn't help himself; newly freed hands found themselves tangled in that gorgeous, tousled black hair and his eyes locked those of his...not assailant, not anymore. No, this was now a more than consensual encounter. Dean could have run at any time but he stayed and directed the man deeper onto his cock. The light was glinting off his Impala and he knew that if anybody were to come back here it would mean he lost his job and his crappy apartment, but Anna said she'd cover him...

It was hard not to lose himself in the best blow-job he'd ever received. Castiel took his cock like it was a pleasure and took his time to get him thoroughly worked up as he moved from head to base and back again. That damn tongue stud would circle the underside of his cock and move across the slit and then swirl across his entirely. Distantly Dean could hear himself moaning wordless encouragement as he was lost in the heat and wetness of the man's mouth. It felt like it was going to last forever; until it didn't. His orgasm swept across him without warning and left him pressing up into the Castiel's mouth and begging for more. He was held steady by hands as he spasmed again and again and again and if it hadn't for Castiel he would have lost his feet entirely.

Somehow he was clothed again, twitching as the fabric of his boxers and the pressure of his jeans slid against the sensitive skin of his post-orgasmic cock. He wasn't sure how long it took for him to come back into his body but he was sure that he was being held the entire time, his hair was being stroked as he clung to that red t-shirt for any sense of stability. And then his breathing evened out and he was being picked up and set on his feet. Dean's brain was having difficulty processing. "You're just...gonna leave? After that?"

Castiel threw him a wink and brushed hands down his chest before coming up to slap his face. It was enough to startle Dean upright but not enough that it hurt. "Gotta leave 'em wanting." He started off down the alley with hands in his pockets and a cocky grin on his face. "I'll be back. I'll show up when you least expect me." The sodium yellow of the lights and the rain that was starting to fall were doing wonders for this guy's image as he sauntered away, the shine on his belt the only thing that gave him away as he slipped into the dark, leaving Dean to simply run hands over his hair again and again as he tried to make sense of what just happened.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I wasn't sure where this was going until it finished but I have to say... I'm happy with it. Those of you who are familiar with with my writing will realize that this is really nothing new. Violence and themes of abuse and non-con are prevalent through my work but with other things I've been posting recently this may seem particularly dark (compare this to PWP, for example). However...dark is kind of what I do and I'm thrilled with the way this came out. There are some really dark and _ADULT_ themes in here; abuse, rape, non-con that turns into dub-con, drugs, rough sex. Marking. Bruising, blood. I don't normally go in-depth in the A/N like this but this piece is something else. This series is something else and it could very well be triggering. The violence is strong in this. If you don't want to read these things then stop here. Consider this your warning. Just...keep in mind that you -were- warned and don't send me PMs to tell me I'm sick and depraved. I knew that going in.**

**~ladyarrin**

It was dark outside the bar; the alley lights had gone out weeks ago and there wasn't much for him to be doing now. The bar was closed down for the night and his mysterious assailant had never reappeared. It had been months since he had seen the man and he'd almost forgotten about the promise to return. Dean had gotten a new tattoo that had been finished about a two weeks ago and cost him nearly a thousand dollars, the scabbing done finally done and falling off, leaving a shiny pair of wings along his forearm from wrist to elbow. His life sucked. He went home at night to a shitty apartment in a neighborhood where he ran the risk of being shot and sometimes the trains wouldn't come and the bus wouldn't show, leaving him to walk across the city instead and not get home until four or five in the morning. He drove when the weather was bad but he didn't want to risk leaving the Impala out where people could break in and ruin his car.

Tonight, though, the Impala was parked back in the alley and it was pouring. It was also dark and _that _was how the man had managed to sneak up behind him.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean whirled and had his knife out of his pocket before he could even think about it. And then his wrist was grabbed and his weapon taken from him with a _tsk_ing sound coming from the other person. It was him. Castiel. His mysterious man from the bar.

"Relax. It's just me."

Dean furiously yanked his arm back, ready to swing his fist in a punch. "You have no right to show up here after what you did." Castiel simply smirked at him which really only enraged him further.

"C'mon. We're going to my place tonight." Dean apparently had no say in the matter as fingers reached into his pocket and his keys were stolen without another word, the man sliding behind the wheel of the Impala before Dean had even had a chance to process what was going on. Fuck. He could either get in the car or allow his baby to be stolen; the one thing he took pride in. The one thing that made his life worth living. The one thing that he had since Sammy had forgotten who he was. He slid into the passenger side, numb, staring out the window as his hands remained limply on his thighs. The ride was silent. No music, no talking. No anything. Dean allowed his eyes slide out of focus as they headed down the rain-slicked streets and watched the buildings fly by. The man, Castiel, had no regard for public safety or traffic laws as he blew through lights and stop signs, taking no heed of anything or anybody until they pulled into a building that was all big windows and chrome. The Impala went down underground into a parking lot that had opened as the driver waved a key fob and down into an empty space that held only a Harley Davidson motorcycle; impractical for the weather that they often experienced here. This man was anything but practical. Dean got out of the car still numb and still afraid with his face pale to the point of ashen, his pulse trilling in his ears.

Dean was afraid; that was no mistake. He had no idea what he was doing as his wrist was held captive and he was dragged into and then out of the elevator, down a well-lit hall and into an absolutely stunning apartment that cost more than everything he had ever owned in his entire life. It was beautifully furnished; a soaring two story loft with fifteen foot windows and a kitchen that had every appliance under the sun; everything was stainless steel and gorgeous. Dark leather couches and dark tables, dark TV stand that held a massive TV and game consoles. A massive blu-ray collection. Games galore.

"What do you think?" Castiel spun around with his arms wide as he twirled, black shirt riding up his torso. It allowed Dean the opportunity to study the place more and he didn't like what he found. On the kitchen table, in plain sight, was a mirror coated with some sort of pale residue. There was a spoon and a lighter. There was a grinder. Bottles, although evenly spaced, were only half full. This was a man who finished nothing but started everything. This was a man who would likely leave him crumbled into dust. Dean was cautious and shoved his hands down deep into his pockets, fingers closing again on his knife. Castiel had crazy reflexes, though, and he may not even be able to get out of here. And what would he do if he did? What if he couldn't get out of that parking lot? There were cameras everywhere. If he hurt this man, or God forbid killed him, he would never get away with it. The caution came through in his voice as he positioned himself in the center of the room...the man had a habit of shoving him up against walls, after all.

"I think it's gorgeous. Little sketch, though, considering the way you basically just kidnapped me." His voice was veiled and quiet. The last thing he was expecting was a musical laugh as the man sank onto the leather and plucked out a baggie from a wooden box on the table. Those gorgeous, delicate fingers (the ones that had helped to bring him to one of the best orgasms of his life) scooped up a razor blade and that mirror, deftly breaking up the substance into smaller and finer particles before separating them into lines.

"You need to relax." There was a purr that radiated warmth from the man's blue eyes. "Did I tell you I liked your new tattoo? It's pretty...it suits you. You _are_ very pretty, you know that, right?" There was a crumbled dollar bill on the table that he picked up, the creak of the leather heralding his actions. "Come sit down. I won't hurt you...much." The dollar bill became a straw. "Come relax with me, Dean."

This whole situation reeked of bad news. Nothing good could come of this but Dean was so damn **lonely** and this man was offering him company. Desperate people did desperate things and so the barkeep found himself sitting down without complaint, taking the unknown drugs and sniffing deep of the powder that burned the delicate skin of his nose and set his head to reeling. He sank back into leather that was soft against his lower back where his shirt had ridden up but he was too dizzy to fix it. It may have been fine if that had been it, but Castiel didn't stop there. There was the smell of weed being lit that was laced with a sharp tang and something was held to his lips. He inhaled without even thinking about it. Dean Winchester wasn't a completely innocent man; he had done drugs before but this...these were not normal drugs. Whatever it was, it was a combination. He was starting to lose feeling with his body and a disconnect happened with his brain but that blunt came back to him again and again until it was no longer a blunt against his lips.

Somehow Castiel had ended up on his lap and was blowing smoke from his lungs into Dean's and the bartender was swept up in a kiss even as he blew the smoke out through his nose. He had no idea what was going on. The world was spinning every time he opened his eyes so he simply kept them shut, watching colors starting to appear against the back of his eyelids even as he lost himself in the feeling of Castiel's tongue against his, the feel of hands under his shirt pulling it over his head. He could see the words the other man was saying in stark print against his brain, burned into his heart, but he couldn't remember them. They were nothings that were said to keep him pliable and it was wrong and dangerous but his hands were holding onto Cas's hips and he was kissing back because _fuck_ it felt so damn good. He only realized his pain threshold was screwed up when a sharp jolt of pain lanced through his thoughts and went straight from his neck where he'd been bitten right to his dick. The sound and depth of his own moan surprised him; as did the metallic smell of blood. The other man had broken the skin. It should have freaked him out. He should have left then and there but he was hornier than he'd ever been in his life and the way Castiel's fingers were bruising his hips and the way the man's teeth were on his neck was setting him on fire. Nothing else existed outside this man.

His world jolted as he was dragged to his feet and shoved chest-first against the wall. Somehow he realized he was naked and that his painfully hard erection was pressing against the cold, almost rough surface of the plaster and it hurt. Dean tried to say something, anything, but nothing came out except for a strangled moan. This wasn't him; this wasn't his body, his reactions, his emotions. He started to struggle when he felt cold, wet fingers pressing against his ass and he realized what this man had brought him here to do, but he quieted for a brief moment as a hand came to pet across his hair. Then the hand was pulled away. That was when he started to struggle anew, tried to push himself away from the wall and found himself pulled away before being slammed sharply against the wall with a forearm across the back of his neck, a voice snarled in his ear. "You don't get to do that, Dean. You don't get to come into _my _home, abuse _my_ hospitality, start making out with me and then _leave_. It's not polite."

There was something wrong with that logic and he knew it in his heart but his head was too thick to process the thoughts. There was pain lancing through his brain and he knew that he was going to be fucked whether he liked it or not and that in a way he should be grateful the strange, dark man was 'preparing' him at all. It didn't stop him from struggling, though, as the hurt hit his brain again. And then...the attitude of Castiel changed.

Castiel, as a man, was impossible to get a reading from. One minute he was snarling and inflicting pain and the next he was trying to ease it away with quiet murmurs in his victim's ear, petting along his hips and side until Dean stopped squirming. Eventually though his patience went away and Dean let out a harsh, ragged cry that seemed to border on a scream as Castiel took him from behind. _It hurt; he was being torn in two, his very soul was being lacerated_. There was a hand on his hip and nails dug into his skin and the other hand that was over his mouth was keeping his anguished cries from getting too loud. It was too much too fast. He couldn't keep up.

That's when things took a turn for the worse; the hand across his mouth moved to his throat and compressed even as the hand that left bruises on his hips moved to jerk his cock again and again, force him to a level of pleasure and pain he had never known. The grip on his windpipe had him struggling for breath and blackness creeping in on his vision and he realized in the back of his mind just how strongly he was thrashing against the hold this man had on his body. He was getting enough air to keep him conscious even as the pleasure came in waves from his battered, abused body. The hand on his cock was insistent and Dean felt himself cresting towards an orgasm that he might never recover from. The fingers on his throat tightened just before it hit him, his brain screaming for oxygen as he rode what was the most intense orgasm he had ever had. It lasted for what seemed like forever with him pressed against the wall and spasming around the body that was ravaging him, fucking him raw. Eventually it subsided with the release of the hand on his throat and with that rush of air that went into his lungs, Dean realized very dimly that Castiel had finished.

His body was aching and bruised and he felt himself picked up just as his body went limp, deposited on the couch. He felt fingers in his hair and gentle kisses on his temple, quiet words in his ears about how _good _and _perfect_ he was, how Castiel had never had such a _wonderful _experience. In a dark recess of his mind he felt his heart soar; he knew this was unhealthy. He knew this was fucked up. He knew, even through the dark of the drugs, that he had been raped. He also knew that he would never be able to turn this man away.

Castiel watched him long after Dean slipped into a coma-like sleep, the only light in the room coming from the end of his cigarette. He stood and stretched like a cat, prowling in his naked glory towards a lamp that he switched on to emit a soft glow, enough for him to see by. The man was beautiful to look at; especially like this. He snuffed out the cigarette and took up a kneeling position next to the couch, fingers stroking across the bruises he had left. The handprint across the man's delicate throat. The bite that was scabbing on the side of his neck. The finger bruises on his hips and the crescent moons of blood where Castiel's nails had broken the skin and down to the dark blood and semen between the man's thighs. A soft sigh swept through him. Through all the abuse that had been inflicted on the man, Dean he had responded beautifully. His brain was still a little soft as he went upstairs and picked up a towel and a bowl of warm water. There was a certain amount of ritual and care that went into cleaning his pet's body, soft strokes to clean off the fluids and leave him bruised and utterly perfect. Dean would sleep for a long time; long enough for Castiel to clean him up and take some photographs on his phone so he could capture the moment. He was beautiful as he slept. Castiel slid a pillow under his head and pulled a blanket from the other couch to wrap his body in. Under the blanket he looked so small, so powerless...

...because that's what this was all about. Castiel settled into an armchair to wait out the man's slumber with the rest of the blunt, waiting. He was a wealthy man who thrived on power, on the ability to control, and Dean accepted his control like he craved it.

This one was a keeper. Indeed. Castiel wouldn't ever let him go.


End file.
